


heart attack <//3

by bloodonthewalls



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autistic Will Graham, M/M, Mutual Pining, Trans Male Character, Trans Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodonthewalls/pseuds/bloodonthewalls
Summary: Generic day-to-day cope fic because willgraham is my comfort character lol
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Will Graham steps out of the FBI Headquarters into the brisk Virginia air. It's winter, which Will enjoys considerably more than summer for a multitude of reasons. Right now, however, he's more focused at the task at hand- the permeating and insufferable temperature overcorrecting heaters create paired with so many student's eyes on him had created sensory hell, slamming Will into something between a panic attack and a meltdown. 

He had always hated the way students looked at him during lectures, eager and expectant, wanting to feel special in a room full of trainees and make eye contact with the professor. It was almost hellish the way his field of view was confined to the floor, his desk, and the projector screen that sat behind it: he couldn't send a 200-meter stare past the student's seats, he would eventually find his vision coming in to focus on a beaming face of a trainee, and it always threw him off. 

The cold air on his face and permeating his layered clothing begins to soothe the physical effects of the reaction- he can feel the inflammation sitting in his face, chest, and back going down, but sweat still pricks his brow and dampens his shirt. 

Will realizes his blazer is still on, preserving the humidity his body had created, pressing down on his arms, constricting his shoulders, he's noticing now that the wool scratched his wrists when he moved, and his neck, and it's all too much. 

He throws off the jacket in an almost dramatic fashion, feeling out of breath and so, so tired. Staggering to the nearest bench (or similar structure) in sight, Will begins to catch his breath, grounding himself. 

My name is Will Graham. I'm in Quantico, Virginia. It's...the time is... fuck, what time is it? He flicks his wrist back to check his watch: 3:21. It's three twenty-one. 

Breathing deeply, he is made suddenly aware that it's probable a few of his colleagues saw him (not Alana, please not Alana,) and countless trainees, too. Will glances at his surroundings, keeping his view below eye level, counting the pairs of legs and classifying the pairs of pants: plain black slacks for trainees, just barely more colorful brown tweed trousers for his fellow professors, and the occasional pantsuit or dress (who would wear either in weather like this?) Sighing, he runs a hand through his curly brown hair and squeezes his eyes shut. Unwillingly, his hand tightens its grip on his hair. He hates when this happens. It's nearly over, he reassures himself. The soft tap of dress shoes approaching gently shakes Will out of his reverie. His eyesight meets with black shoes and navy blue trousers, then flicks up to see the familiar, gaunt face of Hannibal Lecter. 

Immediately upon identification, Will can feel his palms begin to sweat. He sets his hands face-down on his thighs and inspects the only face he can stomach- what is he thinking now? 

"Hello, Will. You are steaming." 

A jolt of confusion passes through Will, and then he realizes that sure enough, steam is gently wafting off his torso. 

"It's cold enough for that," he says flatly, glancing back up at Hannibal. A faint smile softens his eyes, and Will fidgets. 

"Has something happened?" Will is rapidly moving his legs up and down, occasionally stimming with his hands or face: he's aware how stupid he probably looks to the neurotypical eye. 

"Uh, yeah, it's-the..." Hannibal tilts his head forward expectantly. 

"Hot. And everyone keeps... looking at me, I fucking hate it." Will takes off his glasses and rubs his face and eyes. He can feel his saliva sitting thick on his tongue, gumming up his mouth. Hannibal makes eye contact with the space next to him. 

"May I sit down?" 

"Sure," Will offers, attempting to feign absentmindedness, only pulling off desperation. When he gets like this he can't control his tone. It's like the part of his brain that encourages the controlled social environment he prefers is shut off. Now his attention shifts to the way Hannibal pronounces "sit". The softened "s" is soothing to Will, and he finds himself calmer than before. The cold allows him to feel Hannibal's body heat creeping up onto him. Something rises in his throat. He feels safe right now. 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Hannibal speaks gently, his words feeling to Will as though they reverberate through him. He can feel his words in his hands and feet, his face, the cradle of his hips past the skin of his stomach. 

"Yes." Hannibal eyes Will and then stands up, Will following suit.  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

Will turns the knob on the shower wall. Cold water barely grazes his hair as it sputters, then sprays persistently, out of the shower head. He prefers cooler showers over hot ones- hot showers make him feel small and rushed, they push him to the bottom of the bathtub, and sitting in a shower is not a particularly normal thing to do. Will mentally remarks that normal has never really been his top concern, accompanying it with a shallow snort.

Hastily, he removes his shirt, lightly tossing it off his shoulders. Will glances at himself in the mirror, running his eyes over the parallel scars on his torso: one across his lower stomach, the other stretching from armpit to armpit across his chest. He runs his right hand along the scar on his chest, furrowing his brow at how numb it feels. The feeling is supposed to come back eventually, that's what the doctor said, but it's only been about two years, and he has a feeling the sensation won't return for a few more. 

Will's eyes flick to the rest of his body. He's been on testosterone for more years than he can count, he'd started just before his sixteenth birthday, but leftover stretch marks at the backs of his hips remain and remind him. He think of them as scars too, a reminder of the body he had to stretch out and mold to fit into. 

A sigh escapes Will's chest. He steps into the shower, cool water rushing over him, gently massaging the top of his head and running off the rest of his body. As he reaches for the shampoo, he closes his eyes. It isn't really shampoo, it's that awful 4-in-1 bullshit, but Will doesn't care. He likes the smell, and at least he doesn't bathe with dish soap (anymore). 

His head tilted back, his eyes screwed shut, his lips gently parted so he can breathe, Will imagines he looks relatively pretty right now. 

His sweet brown hair has been pushed back, away from his eyes, heavy with water, and it's out of his face. A flush mottles his cheeks, his face is slightly damp. He allows himself to picture a perfect image of himself- he pretends to feel attractive, to feel lovable and want-able. What he does not know, but likes to imagine in indulgent moments, is that Hannibal looks at him like he is exactly that. 

In every moment of his existence, Will is found by Hannibal as a thing of beauty. He is fascinated by him, enamored, and Will has no idea. 

Hannibal. Will stares at the ceiling. There is something so beautiful about him, the way he holds himself and gently smiles at him. Will knows he's his soft spot. They both know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pining 😳

**Author's Note:**

> hiii <33 idk if i'll make multiple chapters of this but im hoping i will!!! im writing as i go along so it may turn out a bit shit but i'm not bothered by that


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